Trains
by ariella-ariella
Summary: Holocaust AU: Sherlock is a lonely nine-year-old boy living in Nazi Germany. One day, he discovers a gap in the hedge behind his house, and, perhaps more importantly, a new friend locked behind a fence. Rated K for occasional swearing and generally intense themes.


Sherlock ran down to the barbed wire fence and rattled a stick against the chain link as he rounded the perimeter of the yard. There had been a boy there yesterday, one who hadn't been afraid to talk to him. They had sat quietly and watched each other through the fence, like animals at the zoo; each exotic to the other. His name had been John, and he wore a pretty yellow badge on his shirt. It was a star, and Sherlock found it funny that this boy should get a gold star awarded to him when his clothes and face were dirty all the time. He thought perhaps he got it because he was so punctual. The boy always ran whenever he was called by the soldiers. Sherlock spotted the boy and smiled. "John!"

"Hello, Sherlock," John said with the biggest smile he could muster. This Sherlock boy was funny. He would actually talk to John, even though he spoke German and was a German boy.

"Guten Morgen," Sherlock said, and sat down. He wrinkled his nose. "Why is your German so poor?" he asked.

"It's not my native language," John said, looking at his knees. "I never needed to know it before I came here. I'm sorry."

"Where are you from?" Sherlock asked. The boy was still dirty. "Doesn't your mother wash you?"

"Poland," John said, and he cringed at the mention of his mother. "My mother can't wash me," he whispered.

Poland. Sherlock knew where that was. That would explain why his mother never washed him. "Is it because you're a dirty Jew?" he asked innocently. He'd heard his parents talk about it often. He wasn't sure what a "dirty Jew" was, but John certainly was dirty.

John looked hurt. "I thought you were different. That's a very mean thing to say, Sherlock," he said, clenching his jaw to keep himself from crying.

"W-what?" He must've hurt John's feelings, and Sherlock felt horrible. "I... I didn't..."

"A Jew is what Germans call people like me. They pretend it's the same as calling me a rat or a pig," John said, feeling a little better knowing that Sherlock didn't mean it.

"Well are you?" Sherlock huffed. He was so confused.

"They took our word and turned it into something mean. And it hurts when you call me that, Sherlock," John said. "But alright, I am a Jew."

"Jew," Sherlock repeated quietly. "Why is it mean, if they're calling you what you are?" he asked, "They're telling the truth."

"Because they mean it to hurt. If I called you a 'German', but I wanted it to hurt your feelings, would it? If I started hurting you and your people just because you were German, and calling a dirty German, would it make you sad?" John said.

Sherlock thought about this for a while, sucking his lip. "Are they hurting you?" Sherlock asked, avoiding the question. "What do you do in there? My mam says it's a camp."

"They hurt my dad," John said quietly. "We mostly sit around, or the soldiers make fun of us and make us work. It's not the good kind of camp." John wracked his brain for the word they had used for the place. "Con...concen...concentration. It's a concentration camp. To keep all of us in one place."

"All of you? You mean all the Jews." He wanted to be certain he was understanding this. "I think I get it. My big brother puts me in the corner when I'm bad. To make me concentrate. Were you bad?" Sherlock couldn't imagine what this little boy had done to be locked up in there without a mother to wash him, or a father to take care of him.

"A couple people were a long time ago. Before we were born. So they got mad and decided to punish all of us. They think we're all bad," John said sadly, sighing and picking at his nails, which were broken and chipped.

"That long ago? Why are the soldiers mad, then?" Sherlock knew his father had often spoken heatedly about John's people, but Sherlock never caught the cause of why he was so mad.

"Well," John said slowly. "From what my daddy told me...before we came here, when they just started taking my people away, after the Great War, the Germans were poor and starving and sad. And then a new man came along and said that it was our fault that the Germans were poor and starving and sad, and that if they killed us, they would be okay again," he explained, clearly trying to recall something he hadn't thought about in a long time.

"Der Führer," Sherlock said, beaming. "He's wonderful. He's so smart, and knows exactly what to do." Sherlock was a member of the Hitler Youth, and had a mail-away poster of him pinned to his bedroom wall. He wanted to be a soldier, just like Mycroft once he was old enough.

"Der Führer, that's right," John said, an obvious look of disgust on his face. "He thinks that all the Jewish people are bad. Like we aren't even human."

Sherlock frowned. "No he doesn't. That's not true, he sent people to camps, just to be safe until the war is over. He's a good man..."

"Camps? We aren't safe here, Sherlock," John said, hooking his fingers in the fence and leaning forward. "Look over there, look at those soldiers. Look at the little boy," he said after a quick look behind him. "Does he look safe? Does he look like he was put here by a good man?"

Sherlock gazed at the little boy, sitting crying in the dirt for his mother, who was nowhere to be seen. He couldn't have been older than three or four. A soldier went over to him and shouted at him to stop crying in German, but the boy couldn't understand. So the soldier nudged him to his feet with the butt of his gun and led him out of the pen area, disappearing behind some buildings. Sherlock scowled. "Yes! That soldier just took that little boy to find his mam!"

"No, Sherlock. That boy's mom is dead. And they're probably going to shoot that little boy," John said, pushing back bitter memories of when they had stolen his mum from him. She might be dead, too. "That's what they do. If you cry, you die."

Sherlock was angry. "That's not true! Why would they do that?! He's just a baby!"

"Because he's a Jew! Just like me! They don't think we're people, Sherlock," John's lip was trembling. "They would have no guilt killing a baby rat, and they won't have any guilt killing Amichai, or me, or anyone else here."

Sherlock stood up. "I don't want to be your friend anymore," he said stubbornly. "You're mean!" And with that, he dashed away from the fence and squirmed through the hedge just as the camp's dinner bell rang.

John watched Sherlock go and felt himself start to cry. He rubbed his eyes furiously and stood up. He couldn't afford to look weak. Maybe Sherlock wasn't his friend after all. He worshiped the evil man that was responsible for his daddy's death. Maybe Sherlock wasn't a friend at all.

Sherlock was moody all through supper, and when bathtime came, he fussed and cried with the nanny until he was blue in the face. When he was finally put to bed, he laid awake late into the night, just staring at the poster of the Führer on his wall. He went to see John again the next day anyway, and he brought a stick of candy as an apology gift. He sat and waited for John to come outside.

John had contemplated most the morning about going to the fence again. It would only hurt more if his friend didn't come. He decided that it couldn't hurt, though, and as he approached the fence, he was relieved to see his friend sitting across from it. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have insulted your idol," he said.

"I'm sorry you don't like him," Sherlock said quietly, and offered the candy through the links of the fence. "Forgive me?"

John looked at the candy. "Of course, Sherlock. We're friends, and friends forgive each other," he said. He took the bag and sat it in his lap, careful to hide it from view completely.

"Well?" he asked, "Aren't you going to have some?"

John paused. "It's the wrappers," he said, trying very hard not to hurt Sherlock's feelings. "We're not supposed to have sweets. If they find the wrappers, we'll all get punished."

Sherlock frowned. "Give me the wrappers of the candy you eat. I'll take it home with me."

John smiled and opened the bag, pulling out two pieces and handing one to Sherlock through the fence. "I doubt you brought any for yourself," he said, unwrapping his own and popping it in his mouth. It had been almost a year since he had had a sweet, and he had forgotten how much he missed them.

"I'm not hungry," he insisted, handing it back to John. "Those are all for you. Or... your friends. Whatever you wish of them."

John smiled again, but it was a slightly sad smile. "I haven't really got friends here. Just you," he said, putting the sweet Sherlock handed him back in the bag.

"Why not? Aren't there other children? I see them sometimes."

"They're all very sad. They don't want to make friends," John said, handing the wrapper through the fence and pulling out another sweet. "Because sometimes you wake up and the people you know aren't there anymore."

"What, like they go home?" Sherlock asked, tucking the wrapper in his pocket.

John gave him a timid look. "No. After they go missing, they never go home." He ventured a look at the smoke pipes behind him and shuddered.

"What? What's the matter?" Sherlock scowled and looked at the smoke stacks.

"I hate this place," he sighed. "My sister and mum are very far away from me. I don't know what happened to them. I'm afraid they might have gone to the shower rooms," he whispered.

Sherlock smiled a little. So they did have a place to bathe. "Can't you wash yourself? I'm sure they don't look half a dirty as you."

"Not that sort of shower. Gas shower," John said, swallowing his piece of candy and looking down at the bag. "When the camp gets full, they have to get rid of some of us."

Gas shower? Get rid? "John, I don't understand..."

"When they need more room, they go to a random cabin and round up everyone inside, take them to the shower..." John stopped and shook his head, his throat catching. "Every few weeks."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. What was he trying to tell him?

John took a deep breath and tried to relax. "They put them all in the showers and release gas inside, and it kills everyone in the room. One of the soldiers said they burn them. Another said they turn them into the food we eat." He looked like he was going to cry and looked away, rubbing his eyes again.

Sherlock smiled and laughed. "John, that can't be true. Those are just ghost stories they tell you to make you behave!"

"Well. every time a cabin gets cleared out, the smoke stacks run," John said, sighing. He wanted desperately to believe his friend. He gave his friend another half smile. "But that's a sad subject. What else should we talk about? What happened for you last night?"

Sherlock blushed. "I threw a temper tantrum and got in trouble."

John laughed. "What about? You don't seem like the type to throw tantrums."

"I was upset by what you said yesterday," he admitted shyly.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't want tp get you in trouble," John said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"It wasn't your fault," Sherlock said quietly. "Can't you ever come to my house and play? I have toys..."

"I wish I could," John said, thinking of how wonderful it would be to play with Sherlock. "We're not allowed to leave. That's why this fence is here, to keep us in."

"But... if you went in, there must be a door out..."

"There is, a guarded gate. That's how the soldiers get in and out, and how they take us out if they want us to work, or move to another camp."

"What if I ask for you? My brother's a soldier, I can ask to play with you. I'll bring you back before dark," Sherlock said, smiling.

John looked very conflicted. "I might get in trouble. Your brother is a soldier, he wouldn't want you playing with a Jew," John said. He seemed to be thinking. "Maybe if you ask, but don't mention me by name. Ask to pick out someone you want to play with? Maybe..."

Sherlock grinned. "Wait right here." He ran around the enormous perimeter of the fence, searching for the entrance, and eventually he found it. He smiled at the guards as he approached. "Guten Morgen," he said nicely, "Wer ist meine Bruder Mycroft? Ich will er sehen, bitte..." The guards barked at him and told him to go away.

John looked very nervous. He grabbed the bag of candy and stuffed it up in the wheel of the broken car that he hid behind. He prayed and prayed that Sherlock wouldn't get him in trouble.  
"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted, walking up the dirt path toward his brother. "What on earth are you going out here? This is no place for you to play."

Sherlock ran to Mycroft and hugged him. "I got lonely. Mama said that children played here. Can I play with them?" he asked, looking up at his brother and smiling shyly.

Mycroft knelt next to his brother, looking in to his eyes. "Why would you want to play with these kinds of kids? They're dirty and mean, they would steal your toys," he said. " Once school starts, you'll make friends and they'll come play with you."

"But," Sherlock pouted, pulling at his brother's sleeve. "Please, Mycroft? I'm lonely... Just one? Can't I just pick one?"

Mycroft sighed, clearly thinking it over. "Sherlock, I don't think Mum wants a disgusting Jew in her house," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, one. Just one, just for today. I hate seeing you lonely."

"I don't think they're disgusting," Sherlock said quietly. "I'll pick a pretty one then. And I'll wash it before I take it inside. Mama doesn't have to know." He beamed, proud of himself.

Mycroft sighed and waved at the guards to open the gate. "If he's pretty, he isn't a Jew, Sherlock. Maybe you've got good intuition and he won't be." He offered Sherlock his hand and they walked inside. "Wait for a second," he told Sherlock, and he went to explain to the guards what was going on. He made up a bullshit excuse about wanting Sherlock to experience their evil first hand at an early age, then went back to his brother. "Alright. Go pick a friend for the day."

Sherlock beamed, and ran to the yard he knew John would be waiting in. He glanced around at the other children, pretending to be picky about choosing. He circled a broken rusted car and found John cowering behind it. "John," he whispered, and touched his arm gently, beaming. He could finally touch his friend. "Mycroft, I want this one," he whined. "Look, he's pretty. He's got blond hair! Mama won't know the difference."

John jumped and scrambled to his feet, working very hard to hide his smile. He looked scared and innocent. He watched as Mycroft walked over. "Have I done something wrong, sir?" he asked, looking between Sherlock and Mycroft. A couple of other children were looking at him. Mycroft sighed again.

"No, you haven't. I'm allowing Sherlock to have someone play with him for a day, and he apparently wants to play with you," Mycroft said.

Sherlock beamed. "Follow me," he said sternly, and led John from the yard. "Can I take him out the front?" Sherlock asked Mycroft.

Mycroft let out another sigh. "I suppose," he said, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "First we need to take down his information." Mycroft pulled out a small moleskin and asked John his name, the number printed on his star, and jotted some quick physical characteristics. He gave the paper to the guards and waved as they started back to the house.

Sherlock took John's hand as they emerged on the other side of the hedge. "You've got to be quiet," he instructed. "I'll give you a bath, and change your clothes, and my Mama won't know the difference." The sneaked up the grand staircase of the manor house, and Sherlock opened the bathroom door.

John nodded, still in shock that it had worked.

"You're skinny, though. Not sure how well any of Sherlock's clothes will fit you," Mycroft said quietly as they walked upstairs. "Mum?" Mycroft said, leaning in the door to the parlor. Mrs. Holmes sat reading. "I found Sherlock. He's filthy, and Aurora isn't here yet, so I'm putting him in the bath, alright?" Mrs. Holmes nodded, and Mycroft shut the door, giving John a short smile and leading the two boys to the bathroom.

Sherlock beamed and let the warm water tap run into the clawfoot tub. He wet a wash cloth and wiped John's dirty face with it. "See? Isn't he pretty, Mycroft?" he asked, smiling and waiting for approval.

Mycroft watched in silence for a moment. "I suppose. If they fed you more often, you might even be mistaken for a German," Mycroft said, watching as months of dirt were rubbed away from the boy. "So John. How good is your German?"  
John looked at Mycroft. "Sherlock says it's bad," he said. Mycroft laughed. "It isn't so bad. Just don't talk much to Mummy."

Sherlock smiled. "Leave us, Mycroft. Once he's clean, I want to play." He helped John out of his torn and dirty shirt, frowning. "You're thin..."

Mycroft nodded and left, shutting the door behind him.  
"Am I?" John said, looking down at his chest. "Everyone in the camp is, too. I never thought about it," he said, shrugging.

Sherlock frowned. Maybe that was how Jews were; skinny. "Come on, get in," he said, motioning to the tub as the boy took his trousers off. "I'll wash your back."

John nodded and climbed into the tub, starting to wash the dirt off his arms and legs. He almost laughed. Something as simple as a bath, and he could hardly remember how it felt.

Sherlock washed the boy's back, helping him shampoo his hair. Once it was rinsed, it shone pale blond in the afternoon sunlight. Sherlock smiled.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Really," John said, feeling his hair, which was soft and clean for the first time in forever. "I can't even begin to express how thankful I am."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm glad you're happy." He helped John to his feet and wrapped the boy's thin frame in a fluffy towel, draining the tub. "Come with me. I have some clothes that I've grown out of you can wear."

John nodded, following Sherlock outside, hugging the towel around himself. Sherlock's house was so big, he had no idea how he could remember where to go in it.

Sherlock led John down the hall to his bedroom, and dug through his bottom drawer until he found pants and trousers and a shirt that he had grown out of last summer. He handed them to the boy, as well as a pair of stockings. "Well then, get dressed."

John nodded quickly and put the shirt on, fumbling with the buttons a bit (how could you forget how to button things, john?). He slipped the pants on and made sure his shirt was tucked in, the used the towel to dry off his hair before running his fingers through it. "Do I look a little bit normal now?" he asked, laughing.

Sherlock blushed. "You look lovely." He smoothed the boy's hair and helped him button his cuffs. He noticed a smudge on his wrist, and rubbed at it; dirt that hadn't come clean? But it wouldn't move. "John..." They were numbers. "John, what's this?"

John shrugged. "My numbers. We all have a number, they tattoo it on us when we get there," he said. "So they can keep track of us. It was also on my star, but it's easier to get rid of clothes than skin. If I ever try to run away, they can find me this way."

Sherlock frowned. "Did it hurt?"

"Yeah. It doesn't anymore, though," John said, staring at the numbers for the first time in a while. "Anyway, we should probably start playing," he said, quickly trying to change the subject.

Sherlock nodded. "What do you want to play?" He went to the toy chest by the window and opened it.

John shrugged. "I used to play ball a lot, but that's a bit boring with two people," he said.

"You wanna play jacks?" He pulled the metal spikes and a rubber ball out of the chest.

John laughed. "Yeah, yeah! Let's play jacks," he said, grinning at the sheer novelty of playing jacks with his best friend.

Sherlock set up the game and handed John the ball. "You go first."

John nodded and sat down, spreading the jacks on the table and throwing the ball in the air and snatching a spike with the same hand, than catching it. He then handed the ball to Sherlock.

Sherlock took his turn, watching John play. He seemed so innocent and happy. He didn't deserve to go back to that dirty camp.

"You'll still visit me after today, right, Sherlock?" John asked quietly after they had played several times. He was still smiling, his eyes lit up in a way they hadn't for months.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. We're friends." He went to the toy box and pulled out a set of toy soldiers, but then glanced at the blond boy and put them back. Instead he picked up a train set and opened the box. While they were setting up the wooden tracks, Sherlock sighed. "I've never been on a train. I want to, though."

"I went on a train once," John said, snapping together tow of the wooden tracks. "With my mum. We went to Warsaw to go shopping. Maybe you and I can take a train somewhere one day."

"Warchau," Sherlock corrected with a smile, "In German, it's 'Warchau, Polen.'" He blushed a little. "I'd like that."

"Warchau," John repeated. The word sounded weird and rough to him. "When the war is over, and they think it's safe to let us out,' John said, appealing to Sherlock's beliefs, "We can travel all over. And we'll take trains."

Sherlock considered this for a moment. "But not to America. I want to see America too."

"We'll take a boat to America, then take trains all around America," John laughed, lining the toy train up on the track and pushing it toward Sherlock.

Sherlock lied on his stomach and pushed the train around all the turns and back to John. "Maybe Mama will let you stay for dinner."

"That would be nice," John said, "But isn't it more up to Mister Mycroft? Whether he lets me stay?" John looked in the windows of the train for a moment, making like there were little people inside of it, the little people in the camp leaving on a train back home. Then he continued it on the track and smiled.

"I can ask... No, I can do better than that, I can beg and cry and whine. I want you to sleep over! How fun would that be?" Sherlock got to his feet and dashed downstairs to ask Mycroft.

"Oh," John said, watching Sherlock leave. Today was a day full of miracles, maybe there was one more coming.  
Mycroft sat in the parlor with his mother. A record played in the background, they both had glasses of brandy and books open, treasuring the silence that was Sherlock occupied. Mrs. Holmes still didn't know that Sherlock had a friend over, and Mycroft didn't intend to tell her.

Sherlock went to his brother and tugged his sleeve, whispering in his ear that he wanted John to sleep over and stay for supper. He gave Mycroft doe eyes, pouting.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a miserable look. "Mummy," he said, looking over at Mrs. Holmes, "Sherlock met a friend at the park today and wants to know if he can stay the night."

Mrs. Holmes looked up from her book and frowned. "Where is he then? Not another pretend friend, Sherlock, I hope."

"He's upstairs," Mycroft said. "Came in about a half hour ago, just after Sherlock got out of the bath. Don't you remember?" Mycroft said. Sherlock did smell of soap, luckily, so Mum wouldn't be able to say he hadn't bathed.

Sherlock grinned. "I can go get him for you, if you'd like to meet him."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a warning look, but Mrs. Holmes interrupted. "Of course, I would like to meet him. My son finally makes a friend! Yes, Sherlock, please go get him." Mrs. Holmes seemed truly happy that her youngest son, who seemed quite antisocial, had finally befriended someone.

Sherlock bounded up the steps. "John! Come here, my mother wants to meet you!"

John scrambled to his feet and followed Sherlock downstairs. "Really? She wants to meet me?" he whispered, looking slightly nervous.  
While waiting, Mycroft leaned over to his mother. "And, excuse his German. He was raised in the outskirts," he whispered as if trying to spare the boy embarrassment.

Sherlock smiled and took his hand. "You'll do fine. Just be polite, and don't say much." He led John to the parlor and presented him to his mother proudly. "Mama, this is John. John, this is my mother, Mrs. Holmes."

John smiled and bowed his head. "Mrs. Holmes, it is a pleasure," he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. He held out his hand to her, smiling brightly.

She took his hand lightly and smiled. "My, aren't you polite. Sherlock needs some friends. He's so terribly lonely most of the time. I do hope we'll be seeing more of you." Mycroft blanched at the thought, and winced as his mother touched the boy. Disgusting "Oh, Mycroft, tell the cook the child will be staying for supper."


End file.
